


Wolves

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Off Label [7]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blackmail, Death Threats, M/M, Revenge, but sometimes you need a not-nice person, which surprises no one, zevran isn't a very nice person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 20:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5884312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran gets Alistair a present. A present Alistair will never know about, if Zevran has his way.</p><p>Takes place a couple days after "Shadows."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in less than an hour, and I'm now so ridiculously late for work, but I couldn't stop. And I worked 2 extra hours yesterday, I think they'll forgive me being 30 minutes late today. :P But this is completely unedited, so feel free to point anything out to me. I'm sure there are about a hundred extra commas, just to start with.
> 
> Also, at the relevant point in this, you can imagine Zevran giving Westley's "to the pain" monologue from _The Princess Bride._ I certainly did.
> 
> ETA: If you haven't read ["Shadows"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5749306/chapters/13246984) then this may not make a lot of sense.

While Alistair is off wooing banns, Zevran hunts. It's not quite as easy as he expected, his quarry leading him a chase through most of Denerim's slums, but while it takes him most of a night, he still wouldn't call it difficult.

This is not a hunt about grand gestures or inspiring fear; this is a hunt whose only purpose is death, and it suits him that the death should go undetected as long as possible, except in certain quarters. To that end, he uses a garrote rather than a knife, and hauls the body away with him when every trace of life has left it.

In the end, that's the most difficult part of the hunt. His victim wasn't a small man, and a corpse isn't easy to carry under the best of circumstances. If Zevran weren't so concerned with slipping away unnoticed, the death of a few guards would hardly give him pause, but he is and so they live, despite the occasional near-miss.

Zevran is sweating and breathing hard by the time he reaches the river, and it's a relief to stretch his arms and flex his fingers, drawing in deep breaths of damp air before returning to work. The sky is still dark, but he has more than one task to accomplish tonight, and not much time remaining. Alistair has likely already gone looking for him once, and while Zevran's habit of wandering the city at night will provide a ready excuse, he doesn't want to give Alistair too much time to think on where he might be tonight.

It concerns him only because he knows Alistair wouldn't approve of this hunt, or of what comes next. It has nothing at all to do with whether Alistair will worry, if Zevran is gone too long. Practicality, not sentimentality.

He manages to decapitate the corpse and get the head wrapped without getting blood all over himself, though he does have to stop at a fountain long enough to wash away a few spatters. The headless corpse goes into the river, to float out into the ocean or wash up on shore somewhere else. Zevran doesn't much care which: it's already given him what he needs.

The tavern is busy even at this hour, but the tavernkeeper's eyes still widen when he spots Zevran. He immediately tries to feign indifference, not very successfully.

"I believe we have business to discuss," Zevran says quietly, when he reaches the bar.

"I...yes," the man says, and the glint in his eye is exactly what Zevran had feared.

One of the serving women is left stationed at the bar, while the tavernkeeper takes Zevran to a room on the second floor that isn't currently rented out to anyone. It looks enough like the room from a few nights ago that Zevran feels a faint echo of pain, which he ignores.

"You know who I am," Zevran says matter-of-factly, when the door has closed behind them.

"I do," the tavernkeeper says, his greed plainer than ever. "And I know who your friend is."

This is Zevran's fault, not Alistair's: Zevran is the one who is too recognizable, and his presence makes it easy to identify those he's with.

The tavernkeeper licks his lips and smiles. "How much will he pay me to keep his secret?"

Zevran almost sighs. Why must people always be so blinded by their greed? "That is what I am here to negotiate," Zevran says. "But first, let us set our terms."

The tavernkeeper blinks, then nods.

"Good." Zevran sets his pack on the table, careful not to let it fall too heavily. "Our terms are simple: you will keep his secret for the price we agree on tonight, and you will not ask for more later." Under normal circumstances, Zevran wouldn't be naïve enough to think any blackmailer would stick to such a bargain, but these are not normal circumstances. "You will neither speak nor write about this, in any form, and if you happen to hear rumors of it, you will deny them vehemently." He smiles thinly. "You will be quite the devoted subject, yes?"

"Aye." The tavernkeeper nods, his eyes on Zevran's pack, clearly calculating how much coin it might contain. "Of course."

"Good," Zevran says, smiling. He gestures at the pack. "Then tell me if that payment is acceptable to you."

The tavernkeeper has likely seen his share of bloody and deadly fights, but he still goes pale when he gets the pack open, his mouth working silently.

Before he can speak, Zevran says calmly, "You know him, and you know how hard a man he was to find." The tavernkeeper nods without taking his eyes off the contents of Zevran's pack. "I speak nothing but the truth when I tell you that I began my hunt for him tonight, knowing nothing more than his face. There is no place in Denerim you can hide from me, and no place in Thedas I will not find you eventually. Should so much as a whisper of a rumor come to my ears about what happened here, I will find you, and you will thank me for death when it comes."

At last the tavernkeeper looks up, his eyes wide and sweat beginning to bead on his brow. "He sent you to kill me."

"No," Zevran says, still smiling. "That is not his way, and he would not approve of my methods. He is a good man, and he will be a good king."

The tavernkeeper may be greedy, but he's not stupid, and it's obvious he hears the words Zevran doesn't say: _"I am not a good man, and I am the one you face."_

At last the tavernkeeper swallows. Nods. His hands shake as he flips the pack closed again, and his voice is no steadier when he says, "Your payment is acceptable."

"Good," Zevran says. He buckles the pack closed again and swings it up onto his shoulder, letting his careless motions drive his message home. "Then we have only one more piece of business to finish."

The tavernkeeper somehow manages to grow even paler, and he doesn't look reassured when Zevran laughs. "Oh, do not look so afraid, my friend. This task is simple enough. Send a runner as you were instructed, with a note saying you heard from a reliable source that this man," he pats the side of the bag as if it were a horse, "was killed in a fight in another tavern."

That gets him a startled blink, though the tavernkeeper says nothing.

"Should my friend visit to hear this news from your lips," Zevran continues, "you will not elaborate on the story, or hint by so much as a breath that you have seen me. Say only that this is what you were told, from someone you trust to speak truth. Have we an understanding?"

"Y-yes," the man says, and despite the stutter, it's clear he's thinking hard, and in entirely the wrong directions.

Zevran makes a disapproving noise. "You know of the Crows, yes?" He waits for a nod. "And you know I am one?" Another nod. "Good. Now I wish you to think on this. You are considering how you might profit yourself, by knowing that the Crow who travels with the Grey Wardens is perhaps concerned over the future king's welfare."

The tavernkeeper shifts uncomfortably. Why are people who can't guard their faces always so surprised when someone reads what they put out there for all to see?

"The Crows are known for their dispassion," Zevran says, and unlike the tavernkeeper, he doesn't parade his emotions before the world. "So here is the thing you should reflect upon, after I leave: am I truly less frightening, because I wish to protect someone else? Can you bargain with a man, after you set fire to his house?"

Ah yes, and there's the look Zevran wanted. Good. He inclines his head regally. "I see we understand each other."

This time, the tavernkeeper's nod is jerky, and Zevran smiles.


End file.
